“Aye, certes. If ’tis not so, thou art quite unlike all others of thy kind.” Qualin’s gaze stayed on Roman.
“Then,” Anthea breathed, “everything else I see is also a glamour. Take it away, please! You cannot expect me to dwell in the midst of a lie!”
“Thy kind ever have,” the Faerie lord snapped; but Lolorin murmured, “My lord, I prithee—let her see what is real.”
Qualin stood stock-still for a moment; then he shrugged, tossing his head. In the blink of an eye, the tapestries and carpet were gone, as were the rich wooden panels behind them. Damp rock walls showed in their place, webbed with niter where they merged into the cave’s roof. The four-poster bed was gone; Lolorin lay on a heap of old straw atop a rocky shelf, and her coverlet was several old furs sewn together, with patches of hair missing. Her gown was only linen, stained with age, and Qualin’s glorious raiment had faded to the dun colors of an old, threadbare tunic and hose.
“This is the truth thy kind so praise,” Lolorin said. “Why, I cannot tell—I had liefer live with glamour.”
“So would most of us.” Anthea felt her heart sink.
Even Roman looked somber, but he said, “You cannot expect a gentlewoman to live under such conditions!”
“Glamour will warm and comfort her,” Lorlorin protested.
“The lady is safe.” Qualin’ s tone was brittle.
“Be sure we shall not maltreat her; we have too great a need of her.”
“Need?” Roman turned to Anthea with a frown. “Would you acquaint us with the nature of that exigency, Miss Anthea? Surely you did not come into this hill of your own free will.”
“But I did, Mr. Crafter,” Anthea explained, “at least, into the cave that is the mouth of this tunnel. I sought to hide from Lord Delbert ... .” She shuddered at the thought of him.
“Do not fear,” Roman said quickly. “He is fled to the Continent, and will trouble you no further.” His eyes hardened. “I made quite sure of that.”
Anthea nearly asked what Roman could have done that would have made him so certain, but her courage failed her.
“I take it,” Roman went on, “that Lord Qualin then appeared, to entice you further in.”
“Why, yes,” Anthea admitted, “though I can scarcely blame him, since he did it to protect his own child.”
“Child?” Roman glanced sharply about the room. “Ah, yes!
The lady Lolorin, and the babe you mentioned. I take it they have need of a mortal nurse.”
Anthea blushed. “So they have explained it to me—and I am the only human woman they have come upon. If he does not have human milk, the baby will die.”
“So I have heard.” Roman frowned at Qualin. “But I confess to confusion. Has your race, ever so powerful, now grown so decadent as to need the services of a mortal nurse?”
“Nay!” Qualin exploded. “ ’Tis thy race that hath done it, thy kind that have filled the land with Cold Iron; thine air doth reek with the fumes of the blood of the earth! The insidious aura of unchecked Cold Iron doth pervade the aether, and doth sap the strength from our limbs! Even here, in the fastness of the Welsh mountains, doth that vibrating reach—even here, far from all cities, doth it deplete us!”
“ ’Tis true.” Lolorin’s eyes seemed even more huge. “ ’Tis therefore that my frame cannot bring forth milk rich enough for my child.”
“Unchecked Cold Iron?” Roman frowned. “What is this you speak of? Men have used Cold Iron in every way they can, for millenia!”
“Not so,” Qualin replied, “for your smithies have grown huge, and pour out vast quantities of the stuff—and more and more of it is alloyed and purified into such as was once reserved for swords!”
“Of course!” Roman lifted his head, understanding coming into his eyes. “Steel has a broader and stronger aura than mere iron—and there is more and more of both abroad, as horses are shod and wagons multiplied! Tell me, is it the Midlands that are especially noisome to you?”
“Aye. Where once was our haven, there are stinking piles of brick that are filled with bits of Cold Iron! Their aura pervades the Midlands; they blight the land!”
“Mills,” Anthea whispered.
“And their ramshackle towns,” Roman agreed. “Small wonder the Faerie Folk are vanishing.”
Anthea frowned. “But the tales of your kidnapping mortal wet nurses go back hundreds of years!”
Lolorin nodded. “Cold Iron began it—and as thy kind spread its use, so didst thou use it to hew down our trees, which did shelter our kind, and without which we cannot endure. Thus we retreated from thee and thy metal, for ’tis poisonous to us. We weakened, yet we persisted—till now.”
Qualin nodded stiffly. “Our folk began to flee, when they found that scarcely a house could be found in all Britain that was not filled with nails of Cold Iron. Aye, they did fly to the Western Isles, where I trust they remain to this day.”
Roman frowned. “The Western Isles that I cannot see?”
“Thou wouldst not, nor any of thy kind—nay, nor will any of thine instruments of alchemy reveal them to thee. Of all the sons of Mother Earth, only those of the Blood may find them, or the roads that lead there.”
Anthea looked up at Roman. “What instruments of alchemy are these?”
But Roman only answered, “I never did like being excluded ... .”
“There is no aid for it,” said Qualin. “Thy kind have not the eyes to see these Isles. Yet our folk did, and most fled; yet some did cling to our earth, and what remained of our forests, for ’twas the land and the trees that did give us birth, look thou, and we despaired of living without them. Aye, some few of us do bide in determination.”
“How is it that the aura of Cold Iron weakens you?” Roman said softly.
“ ’Tis counter to the coursing of our strength,” Qualin maintained. “ ’Tis too measured, too harsh. It doth disrupt all our magics, without which we cannot live.”
Roman nodded. “No wonder you fled as far from the cities as possible.”
“Not enough,” Anthea whispered, staring at Qualin. “It is leaching the life from you. How can you bear to stay?”
“We are intractable,” Lolorin said, her voice low. “For look you, ’twas our land ere any of thy kind did come here, this Britain, this England—and how could it be either, an there were no Faerie folk here?”
Qualin nodded. “Therefore we bide.”
“It must be immensely lonely,” Anthea breathed.
“I’ truth,” Lolorin whispered, “there are few enough of our kind that bide in all England—in all Europe, mayhap in all the world.”
“But how can you endure?” Anthea asked. “Even after this child has grown ... “ She looked down at the baby, which looked up at her, wide-eyed. She smiled tenderly. “Oh, Roman! I cannot leave so sweet a child to perish!” She looked up at Lolorin, her eyes swimming with tears. “How unfair of you, to show me the baby, when you knew it would tug at my heart as strongly as any man could!”
Lolorin only smiled, but with sadness and longing.
“Her point is well taken,” Roman said, his voice low. “She must be free to go where she will, without coercion—and when she chooses.”
Qualin’s mouth tensed with impatience. “Thou shalt have her so, when the babe no longer hath need of her.”
“How long will that be—a year? Two? She is a free woman, you know.”
“She shall not be our slave,” Lolorin said. “ ’Tis as thou sayest—she shall be handsomely paid, and we shall dismiss her in a year and a day as promised.”
“In your time, perhaps. But how long will that be in our time? Seven years? Fourteen?”
Qualin didn’t move, but something in his eyes showed that Roman had hit home. “We shall ensure that it be no longer in thy time than in ours.”
Roman shook his head. “It is not enough. You cannot ask her to forfeit her youth.”